


what big teeth you have

by envysparkler



Series: Shifters [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shifters, Enemy to Caretaker, Gen, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Muzzles, Non-Sexual Submission, Protective Damian Wayne, Protective Slade Wilson, Slade is not as big a bastard as he pretends to be, Whump, he's still a bastard though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: The Bats run into an old enemy.(“I didn’t expect to see you in Gotham.”"Money calls, little bird.")
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Jason Todd & Slade Wilson, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Shifters [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995952
Comments: 314
Kudos: 1266





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which I interrupt our regularly scheduled batfam for some Slade & Bats.

Dick paused for a moment to stretch when he landed on the rooftop – it was going to be a long stakeout to uncover the whispers of a new drug operation near the docks. None of it had hit the streets yet, but the rumors didn’t sound good, especially when anything with that kind of money sunk into it usually led back to a culprit in Arkham.

Dick had barely settled into position when the back of his neck prickled. Dick straightened slowly, slipping an escrima stick out of its sheath. There were very few people in the world that could sneak up on him.

Orange and black on the opposite roof. Dick resisted the urge to swear.

“Slade,” Dick said flatly, “I didn’t expect to see you in Gotham.”

There was a burst of static in his comm before Hood’s voice came through, “Excuse me? Did you say _Slade_?”

“Money calls, little bird,” Slade said, unholstering a gun.

“Nightwing, please tell me that that’s not the goddamn Terminator,” Hood snapped, “Why the hell is he here anyway?”

“What’s your contract?” Dick asked, shifting to the edge of the rooftop and casting a glance at the warehouse he was supposed to be watching. Batman was out on Justice League business, Hood was benched with broken ribs, and Red Robin and Robin were patrolling a stretch on the far side of Gotham because no one was going to make the mistake of leaving Jason and Damian alone together.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. A stakeout, maybe stop a few muggings, but nothing serious. That, Dick realized, was probably exactly what Deathstroke had been banking on.

“Security,” Slade answered easily, “Specifically to keep the Bats away.”

There was a _lot_ of money being sunk into these drugs if they could afford to hire Deathstroke to come to Gotham.

“I’m more of a bird than a bat,” Dick countered.

“I’m well aware,” Slade said, probably smirking behind his mask, “Unfortunately you still fall under mission parameters. Going to stay and fight?”

“Nightwing,” Hood growled, “Get out of there, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Dick bounced up on the balls of his feet and vaulted the distance to the roof of the warehouse. “Now I’m really curious,” Dick said. Slade didn’t pause before he followed, and Dick dodged the first shot. “Who in Gotham has the kind of money to afford _you_?”

“I don’t ask questions,” Slade growled, and Dick ducked behind the rooftop access shed – Slade would never let him get through the door, which meant he had to find a window. “Are we really going to play this game, _Nightwing_?”

“Red, Robin,” Hood snapped, having clearly given up on getting Dick to leave, “The docks. Deathstroke’s in town and Dickwing’s about to do something stupid.”

That wasn’t entirely fair. Slade knew he was here, he’d tell his employer that Nightwing had showed up, and their plans of a quiet, discreet stakeout were ruined. Dick was trying to salvage what intel he could before the whole operation jumped to the next level of paranoid.

Dick hooked the grapple on the edge of the roof and swung off of it, holding the line as he rappelled down, looking for a window – the line vibrated and Dick barely caught the edge of a ledge before the line snapped completely.

“Asshole,” Dick snarled up at the black-and-orange mask peering over the edge of the roof, knife in hand. The knife disappeared and was replaced with a gun and Dick scrambled through the window before he was shot.

He didn’t manage to get far – only registered that he was in a file room, the door was on the other side, and dived behind a filing cabinet as he heard the whine of a grapple.

“We both know how this is going to end, little bird,” Slade said, sounding almost bored, “Leave now, and I might not shoot you.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Dick called out, scaling the next cabinet and clinging out of sight.

“You want my undivided attention, Nightwing, you just had to ask,” Slade laughed and Dick cursed as the cabinets shuddered. He jumped free before they hit the ground, unfortunately leaving him with no cover between him and Deathstroke.

“You get one last chance, kid,” Slade said, raising the gun, “Leave.”

“You hate working in Gotham,” Dick said, edging towards the door, “Last time you were here, you tried to convince me that the city gave you hives.”

“I got hazard pay,” Slade shrugged, “And the Bat isn’t in town.”

Dick dove for the door. Slade shot, missed, and cursed as Dick avoided his lunge enough to twist the knob and dive out into the hallway.

Typical creepy warehouse, Gotham edition. The hallway extended into a series of catwalks over the warehouse floor, where bubbling tanks of an eerie, indigo liquid frothed and hissed. Dick immediately headed for the catwalks – if he could get a sample of the drug –

Slade jumped the railing, easily landing in front of Dick to block his path. Dick drew his escrima sticks, and attacked.

Dick had never won a hand-to-hand fight against Deathstroke, but the point wasn’t _winning_ – Slade was trying to keep him away, Dick was trying to get information, both of them were on a precarious catwalk above chemicals of dubious provenance and if there was one area in which Dick was better than Slade Wilson, it was acrobatics.

Dick leapt up onto the railing, jumped above Slade’s punch, did a handspring just to irritate the mercenary before twisting down in a knife strike aimed at Slade’s feet. Slade stepped back and caught Dick’s next strike, not even flinching at the blow as he stepped into Dick’s space with a vicious elbow at his ribs – Dick nearly bent in half to avoid it, and it still slammed in his side.

Dick moved on automatic, gasping out a wheeze as he twisted, one escrima snapping out at Slade’s neck, the other slamming down on his mask.

There was a sharp crack.

Dick froze. _Shit_.

Slade very slowly reached up and removed his mask – there was a crack through the one eye hole, rendering it pretty much unusable – before tossing it aside. His face was expressionless, one icy eye narrowed.

“Sorry?” Dick tried.

“Do you know how much it costs to make those masks?” Slade asked, his voice low and steady. Dick edged back a step. Talk, or run?

“Slade, your contracts are worth hundreds of thousands, I don’t –”

Run. The answer was _run_.

Dick ducked the jab at his face, escrima lashing out, but Slade was faster and –

The escrima hit the floor and clattered off the catwalk to sink into the nearest vat of bubbling chemical. Dick bit through his lip in an effort not to scream.

“Break something of mine,” Slade said coldly, “And I’ll break something of yours.”

Dick exhaled through his mouth and resisted the urge to make a quip, clutching his broken arm to his chest as he staggered back a step.

“Nightwing?” Hood asked slowly, “Status?”

The vat of chemicals hissed. Dick and Slade both turned towards it, just in time to watch the chemicals froth and bubble and release a huge gust of blue fog.

Dick scrambled for his rebreather with his one working arm, squeezing his eyes shut as the haze enveloped the catwalk, holding his breath until colored spots began dancing on the inside of his eyelids and he sank to his knees, unable to suppress the desperate gasp for air.

It smelled like fruit. Something Dick had tried once or twice, tropical perhaps. And the world was shifting around him and his arm was _screaming_ and the blue haze was everywhere and there were shouts in the distance and –

A low, _furious_ growl. A monster stalking out of the mists – towering over Dick, silver fur and a scar slashing through one eye and a face twisted in a snarl to showcase gleaming fangs.

Dick stumbled back in shock and nearly unbalanced – his right arm seared through with agony as he –

No. His right _wing_ throbbed, hanging limp and wrong, and Dick’s startled shout came out as a high squeak.

He swallowed and tried to shift back. Nothing happened. He tried again, but it felt like something was blocking him, walling him off from the part of him that was human, and no matter how hard he pushed, it refused to give way.

A low rumbling that got louder and louder and _louder_ – Dick chanced a glance up – and _up_ , because the artic wolf was terrifyingly large even when he was human and from the owl’s vantage point, it was the stuff of nightmares – to see that Slade was enraged.

Ordinarily, it wouldn’t even be a contest. Dick had seen Slade hunt as a wolf, but as fast as he was, he couldn’t fly. Dick curled his broken wing closer to himself, hopped back a step, and failed to suppress his shudder.

The shouts got closer, accompanied by booted footsteps thundering through the hallways. The blue haze was slowly dissipating and Dick edged another step away from the murderous wolf, calculating the likelihood of gliding with one working wing.

The rumbling cut out. Dick cast a panicked glance at Slade, but it was too late – the wolf attacked, jaws opening wide, and Dick’s frantic flutter only sent him sprawling against the catwalk as the jaws came down and everything went dark.

* * *

He couldn’t move his wings. He could barely even _twitch_ them, and his broken wing was folded against him, twisted painfully and stuck there because Dick couldn’t stretch it out a millimeter before it brushed against sharpened canines.

He let out a panicked hoot, and hastily stifled the sound at the growl reverberating through his bones. One instant – one moment of instinct, one deliberate act of cruelty, and teeth would rip through his wings and crush his bones and leave him broken and bleeding in agonizing pain.

He couldn’t even see where they were going. He heard snatches of shouts, he could feel them moving, but the noise lessened, the wolf near silent as it padded through the hallways. Dick heard the soft whine of a door creaking open and the soft click as it closed and –

His cage opened and Dick squawked as he tumbled out onto the ground, feathers almost scraping against pointed teeth as he scrambled not to fall on his broken wing. Dick managed to get his talons on the ground and straighten, woozy from panic and pain.

He gave a soft hoot of surprise at finding the icy blue eye _far_ too close to his face, stumbling back and keeping his broken wing as still as he possibly could. He was tucked in a corner behind a box, a window letting in moonlight behind Slade. Dick saw a path between Slade and the box and hopped towards it.

A paw slammed into the ground in front of him, and Dick froze.

It pushed at him until he was forced back to his position in front of Slade. They were in what was probably an unused storeroom, given the amount of dust in the air, and Dick skittered back a couple of steps the moment Slade removed his paw. He needed to find a way out, had to claw out a window maybe and –

Another paw, cutting off his escape. Slowly tugging at him, claws brushing against feathers, until he was back in front of Slade.

Dick brushed free when the claws were no longer in his vicinity, turning away from Slade as he hopped forward, his broken wing dragging against the ground and –

A limb, laying across his path, claws out.

Dick twisted his head until he could see Slade. The wolf looked amused, baring his teeth in an approximation of a grin. Dick’s feathers flared and he twisted back, jabbing forward with his beak, quick and _hard_.

The temperature in the room dropped. Dick couldn’t entirely hide his whimper as the paw disappeared from sight, blood glistening on silver fur. He tucked his head under his unbroken wing as he heard the wolf move, waiting for a paw to slam into his side hard enough to send him across the room – or claws to rake down his wings – or –

Or jaws closing around him, teeth biting down with a warning growl as darkness enveloped him, warm and wet and –

The jaws loosened. Dick was back in his original position, tucked away in the corner, with Slade barring his path. A heavy paw landed on his head, not enough to hurt, but claws out as a warning.

_Stay_. Slade’s meaning was very clear.

Dick gave a quick bob of his head, his wings twitching as he sucked in a sharp breath, trembling in place. The paw was removed and Slade regarded him for a long moment before apparently deciding that Dick wasn’t going to move.

The wolf stood up – Dick had never really registered how _massive_ he was, how one paw was practically the size of Dick’s head – and padded over to the window, jumping up enough to peer out of the glass. Dick wasn’t sure who or what he was looking for, but wasn’t inclined to test Slade’s patience when the wolf had about two hundred pounds on him and was clearly not in a good mood.

He tried to shift back again, and ran headfirst into the mental wall. Though if _Slade_ was still affected, then the effects were going to last for quite some time.

The wolf abruptly turned away from the window and back towards him – Dick hopped back a step, his heartrate ticking up, but Slade barely even noticed, jaws yawning wide _again_.

It didn’t matter how slowly, deliberately, or gently he closed his jaws, Dick was still stuck _inside a wolf’s mouth_ and it was taking all his now-ragged self-control not to start desperately crying out for help.

His broken wing was pinned underneath him and jolted unpleasantly with every stride as Dick’s thundering heartbeat echoed in his ears. Dick lay tense and still, dread twisting inside of him every time the sharp edge of a canine brushed against a delicate feather. Dick had no idea how a gigantic silver wolf was managing to sneak through the warehouse, but there wasn’t a single shout of alarm as he weaved through the hallways.

Dick didn't know where Slade was taking him – their fights usually ended more with bruises than with severe bodily injury, but Slade was a mercenary. He worked where the money took him, and Dick had no illusions that if the pay was good, he’d put a bullet in Nightwing’s skull without a second thought. Was Dick being dragged to whoever was running this operation – a test subject for their new drug, or a warning to scare the Bats away?

One set of fears was soothed by a harsh, mechanized voice, “Let him go, or I’ll take out your other eye.”

Hood was supposed to _be at home_ , the reckless little –

“Do you think I’m fucking joking?”

Dick held his breath. Slade did _not_ take kindly to ultimatums, and Dick was still locked in the grasp of very sharp teeth, fully aware of how easy it would be for Slade to _snap_ –

Honestly, Dick half-expected Slade to spit him out, and had been mentally preparing for the burst of agony of his broken wing slamming into gravel. Instead, Slade’s head lowered and his jaws opened, slow enough for Dick to regain his feet before Slade let go and stepped back.

The docks were cold and Dick shivered in the sudden chill, his wings flaring. His shift was still blocked, and he wasn’t pleased – he was wet and cold and his broken wing _hurt_ and he’d just spent the last several minutes being almost eaten. Footsteps came closer and Dick let out an unhappy screech before a gloved hand scooped him up, tucking him against warmth and a familiar scent.

Dick burrowed further into his brother’s jacket and shivered, feeling Jason’s heartbeat pulse under his feathers.

“If you shoot me, I’m going to have to shoot you,” Slade rasped and Dick twisted to see him standing on two feet, gun out. “Leave. Take the little bird back to its nest and wait for the drug to wear off.”

Jason hesitated, very clearly torn between getting Dick back home and shooting Slade on principle.

“I’m being paid to keep you away, not to fight,” Slade said, regarding them coolly, “Go home, kid.”

Dick made a soft, unhappy sound, and Jason’s grip tightened. Dick was half-worried Slade would make a smart comment as Jason lowered his gun, but the man managed to restrain himself to a smirk.

“Robin, Red, I have Nightwing, I’m heading back to the Cave,” Jason muttered into his comm as he backed away to his bike. Slade watched them leave and made no attempt to stop them. Dick buried his head into Jason’s jacket and let out a low, shaky exhale.

“Jesus Christ, N, I told you to stay away,” Jason hissed as he tried to tuck Dick into a small bag without aggravating the broken wing. Dick made an angry hoot and jabbed the armor right below where he knew there were several broken ribs. “Oh, don’t talk. I wouldn’t have had to come out if you didn’t decide to piss off the fucking _Terminator_.” Dick made a soft, indignant sound. “No, I don’t care that he hasn’t killed you yet, it’s like a cat playing with a mouse. He’s going to pounce one day.”

Dick knew that.

* * *

It ended up being five hours laid up on the bed, struggling to breathe through the pain of a broken wing, before the mental wall vanished and Dick could finally shift back.

His whole body was sore, his arms and legs were covered in thin scrapes, and Dick nearly threw something at Jason when his brother slowly straightened out the broken arm.

“This happen before or after you shifted?” Jason asked.

“Before,” Dick hissed, covering his face with a hand to hide his wince, “I broke Slade’s mask. He wasn’t pleased.”

Jason made a low grumble as he splinted the arm, of which Dick only recognized _‘eye’_ and _‘shoot’_.

“The drug,” Dick said wearily, “It forced us to shift. It was in the air. Blue. I’ll look at a color chart later.”

“Tim already took blood samples, remember? He’ll figure out what it is. You need to rest.” Jason pushed Dick back against the bed and Dick let him, sprawling boneless as the painkillers finally kicked in.

His phone chimed on the bedside table and Dick blearily hunted for it, squinting at the screen and hazily unlocking it.

A text from an unknown number.

_‘Next time you break it, you buy it.’_

Dick felt his lips twitch, and managed to fight the haze of the painkillers long enough to send a response.

A grumpy wolf emoji, a pirate emoji, and a single word.

_‘Thanks.’_

No reply. He wasn’t expecting one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I sort of fell in love with the idea of Slade being a murder uncle, and also the drug that forces people to shift, so you get more chapters!

Jason stuck close to the rafters, carefully walking down wooden beams as he peered into the warehouse. The operation had gone into a tizzy after Nightwing and Deathstroke’s little fight, and an excess of noise rarely meant something good.

Also, no one could pinpoint exactly where or when Deathstroke had left Gotham, so everyone was operating as though he was still here. Add that to the fact that Batman’s Justice League mission was stretching longer than expected, and everyone was on tenterhooks.

Dick was stuck at home, in a cast, which meant that Jason was needed on the streets, twinging ribs or not. Tim and Damian had been strictly instructed to patrol _together_ , without letting the other out of their sight, while Jason poked around some warehouses to get the lay of the land.

So far, the lay of the land was that each and every one of these fuckers deserved a bullet to the brain. Those were _cages_ on the warehouse floor. Several looked brand new. Several _didn’t_. None seemed to be occupied, though.

Jason did not have a good history with cages. He resisted the urge to burn the whole place down, and crept further along the ceiling.

“Hood, status?” Nightwing’s voice echoed in his ear.

“So far, no one in sight,” he whispered back, squinting through the semi-darkness to check each cage for signs of life. Moonlight spilled in broken, jagged spots of silver, illuminating dulled steel as the cages got bigger, sized for larger shifters.

One of the patches of silver _moved_.

Jason crossed wooden beams on silent feet, until he was right above a large cage, probably sized for a horse, and froze.

Silver fur. The scar. And one icy blue eye, staring right up at him.

“N?” Hood asked quietly, aware that the massive wolf could probably hear him, “On a scale from ‘roaming Gotham freely’ to ‘locked up in a cage’, how much do we hate Deathstroke?”

The wolf narrowed its eye. Nightwing sucked in a sharp breath, “ _What_.”

“The reason we never saw him leave is because he never left,” Jason murmured, casting another glance across the large, empty warehouse before jumping down from the ceiling.

He eyed Slade warily through the bars, but it wasn’t a serious debate. “I’m getting him out of there,” Jason muttered, because there was a very short list of people Jason hated enough to lock into cages, and Slade Wilson didn’t make the cut.

“Be careful,” Nightwing said, and Jason rolled his eyes behind the helmet as he stepped up to the cage.

It didn’t look like anything fancy – plain cage, simple padlock, but Deathstroke’s enhanced abilities extended to his shifter form, and the fact that he hadn’t simply battered the door open meant that something was wrong.

And then Jason’s attention shifted from the bars to the wolf, and his breath caught in his throat.

Because there _was_ something wrong.

The wolf tilted his head, clearly catching Jason’s sudden intake in breathing, and there was a hesitant “Hood?” from his comms.

“They have him in a _muzzle_ ,” Jason forced out, green flooding his vision and rage thick on his tongue, but unable to look away from the large, clunky thing strapped to the wolf’s snout, a thin line of blue disappearing into the fur.

Well. That answered the question of how they were _keeping_ Slade as a wolf.

“Hood, calm down –”

“Fuck _calming down_ ,” Jason hissed, “I’m going to burn this place to the ground, and then I’m going to go after every sadistic piece of shit associated with this operation.”

Nightwing continued talking, but Jason turned off his comm, unwilling to listen. He knew what a muzzle felt like – straps biting into fur, forcing jaws closed, the ache that ran through his face for days afterward, whether he was wolf or human, the fierce burn of humiliation that came with being reduced to something less than human.

“I’m going to get that off of you,” Jason spoke directly to Slade, “So if you could come a little closer to the bars and _not_ claw my arm to ribbons, that’d be great.”

Slade’s eye narrowed, but he stepped forward all the same – Jason didn’t know _how_ Nightwing managed to fight him, he nearly came up to Jason’s chest, Jason could barely manage to suppress a shiver and he was on the other side of bars.

“Okay,” Jason said, keeping his voice low as he extended a hand through the bars, “If you maim me, I’m leaving.” Slade growled, but stayed still as Jason slowly pressed a gloved hand to the outline of the muzzle, tracing the buckles. The latch wasn’t terribly complicated, but it would be difficult to undo without opposable thumbs, and Jason worked quickly but carefully, managing to slide one catch free.

“Okay, now the other side –”

Slade yanked back, away from Jason, growling fiercely, but the warning was too late – Jason felt the needle slam into his skin, the burn of something sliding into his arm, and the world twisting around him.

By the time he managed to get his paws under him, he’d already been shoved into the cage. “Looks like we’re going to get a cage fight after all,” someone laughed – and laughed again when Jason shoved himself against the bars.

Unfortunately, Jason did not have enhanced strength, and all he got for his little stunt was a set of bruises. The henchmen laughed again, stepping away from the bars, and Jason growled, baring his teeth at their backs.

“Don’t worry, Hood,” one of them called back, “The boss’ll be here to see you in the morning. If you’re still alive.”

Jason’s growl cut off. He stayed pressed against the bars as he slowly turned around.

Slade looked deeply unimpressed. Wolves should not be able to convey that much judgement with just one eye, but Slade managed.

Jason snarled instinctively to the challenge, and Slade’s growl rumbled through the air – louder and lower, and Jason was abruptly reminded that he was locked in a cage with Deathstroke the Terminator.

Jason cut off the snarl and stayed pressed to the bars. Not antagonizing the mercenary sounded like a great idea, even if he was muzzled. Half-muzzled. Jason had gotten one of the catches, but the other one was doing a fairly good job of holding Slade’s jaw shut, especially with whatever drugs they were pumping through it.

Jason took a deep breath and shifted slightly forward. Keeping his gaze fixed on Slade, he pawed at his own snout, before motioning to Slade’s face.

The eye narrowed.

Jason repeated the movement. Slade didn’t make any visible reaction, and Jason took a slow step forward.

Slade still didn’t move, and Jason pressed his luck and crossed the last step, raising his paw to the clasped side of the muzzle.

Slade tensed, a warning rumble starting again, and Jason froze in place. After a long, fraught moment, Slade lowered his head, bringing the clasp closer to Jason’s face. It was as obvious a permission as he was likely to get.

His claws weren’t going to cut it. Jason paused for a moment to consider whether he was actually going to do this, but on his scale of dislikes, muzzles ranked higher than mercenaries.

Using his teeth was definitely messier, and Slade was dangerously tense, but Jason finally managed to worry the buckle free.

The muzzle was still connected by a mess of wires, but Jason just got a good grip on the front and _yanked_. He wasn’t even trying to be gentle – Slade would heal – and he pried the thing free.

Jason spat the muzzle out as Slade yawned, cracking his jaw and baring his teeth as he shook his head. He gagged at the taste of metal and stepped back as Slade stepped forward, fur pressing back against the bars.

He raised his head, a warning snarl in his throat – the cage was big enough for two wolves, but only just – and it surged all the way into a growl when he met Slade’s intent gaze, jaw bared in challenge.

Slade ignored his growl altogether, lunging forward – _shit_ , Jason had time enough to think as he went low, squeezing past Slade’s legs and towards the back of the cage as the massive wolf slammed into the bars.

His last, dying hope that Slade was just going for the bars flickered and snuffed out when Slade turned towards him, blue eye gleaming.

He shouldn’t have taken that muzzle off.

Jason growled again, his hackles rising in a clear threat to _back off_. Slade looked down at him, and made a huffing sound, dismissing the growl entirely.

It had been _years_ since Jason was not the largest shifter in any given space. Years, and a Robin and a death and a resurrection and a not-so-pleasant stay in an assassin cult. Years, and a different pack, a _better_ pack – and he’d been the largest shifter in the Wayne pack even as a cub.

Jason fought the urge to bare his throat, and attacked before Slade could lunge, aiming for the neck and hoping to take the larger wolf down before trying to find a way out of the cage. He could hear footsteps approaching, echoing in the mostly-empty warehouse – if he could distract Slade – if he could –

Slade dodged his attack and sideswiped him with a paw, slamming him against the bars. Jason suppressed the pained whine – his ribs had _not_ fully healed – and fought to get back to his feet. Claws came down on his back and Jason tried to shake them off, tried to ignore the satisfied sneers outside the bars as money exchanged hands.

He growled again, pushing back against Slade, his lips coiling back in a snarl –

Teeth closed around the back of his neck, and Jason went limp.

_No_ was the only coherent thought that managed to make it through the panic, _no no no no_.

Jason choked back the whimper as _submit_ coiled around all his limbs, forcing him helpless and pliant.

Slade could’ve crushed his neck into two. He didn’t. He didn’t even draw blood. He didn’t even try to _bruise_. He merely held Jason by the scruff, like he was a disobeying pup.

Outside, the henchmen were laughing. “How does it feel, Hood?” one of them called out, “To be someone’s bitch?”

His heart was racing too fast, his surroundings overlaid with sneering faces staring down at him, the throbbing ache of a fresh bite on his neck as they barked out orders, the burn of being forced to submit, over and over and over again.

The wolf was supposed to be stronger. The wolf was supposed to be _safe_.

There weren’t many shifters that could force a submission bite on a wolf. And to Jason’s horrible, terrible luck, he had run straight into one of the ones that could.

Jason barely registered when Slade’s teeth left, snout pressed to the floor, limbs quivering, body trembling – visibly, if those assholes’ laughter was any indication – managing to stare out of half-lidded eyes as Slade approached the bars.

The laughter abruptly broke off. “Shit,” one of them piped up, “What happened to the muzzle?”

Slade _growled_.

Jason pressed himself further to the floor and resisted the urge to bare his stomach, the growl shivering through him and striking against the submission like an iron clanging off of an anvil. The henchmen all took several steps back, a small flare of satisfaction in the midst of churning dread and sickening terror.

“The bars –”

“Enhanced –”

“We need the modified drugs –”

“ _I’m_ getting out of here –”

The thugs fled. On one hand, it served them right. On the other, it left him alone with _Deathstroke_ , no other distractions in sight.

Jason couldn’t entirely strangle the whimper when Slade nosed at him, snout skimming over his fur before teeth closed around his neck again. The ebbing waves of submission flooded him again, sinking him deeper into the haze of _obey_ as he fought futilely to claw out of it.

Slade’s grip was careful as he dragged him towards the back of the cage, pulling Jason easily without even the hint of strain on his neck. He was deposited in the corner, and Jason pressed himself back, curling up as tightly as he could to get away from Slade.

_Submit_ , his mind hissed, even as he tried to clutch at reasoning – Slade wasn’t going to kill him, not in _Gotham_ , not without being paid – not that that would stop Slade from giving him orders – Jason didn’t claim to have any great insight into the mind of the world’s most infamous mercenary, but there was precious little that Jason could do for him locked in a cage – if Jason could just figure out what he _wanted_ –

And Slade had gone right back to ignoring him.

Jason fought his instincts to raise his head warily, watching as Slade shifted into a crouch near the back of the cage, his gaze intent on the door and –

There was a blur of motion, a harsh grinding noise and a screeching _snap_ , and metal clanged against the floor.

Jason raised his head all the way to see that the cage door had been snapped off.

Slade stalked back inside, ducking his head to nose at Jason’s flank – _get up_ , he interpreted easily enough, and he forced himself to straighten on quivering limbs. Apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough for the big, bad mercenary, because Slade reached forward, teeth bared, presumably intending to drag him out.

Jason shoved the creeping urge to obey far enough down that he could press back against the bars, baring his teeth with the hint of a snarl.

Slade, surprisingly, backed off.

He headed out of the cage and Jason stumbled after him, still shivering as submission eased to exhaustion and a sick churning in his stomach. The adrenaline was wearing off, the terror ebbing to numbness as he forced himself to move forward. Slade keep darting glances backwards, as through trying to ensure that Jason was really following him.

Jason had forgotten the implications of Slade being found in a cage, but they were made extremely clear when they happened upon the first guards.

Slade’s fur was slick with red as dying gurgles echoed through the air. Jason carefully stepped past the growing puddles of blood as he kept following Slade.

Jason had the half-hearted thought that he should stop Slade from murdering everyone in the warehouse, but quickly recalculated his stance when he caught the gleam in Slade’s eye from a stray beam of moonlight.

This wasn’t a job. This wasn’t a paycheck. This was _personal_.

Jason was absolutely not getting between Slade and the fools that thought that drugging and muzzling _Deathstroke_ was a good idea. Even if he had been feeling charitably towards them.

Somewhere in the midst of the carnage – and shouts and screams, once they finally figured out that Deathstroke was loose – Slade was human again, just as efficient with swords as he had been with teeth and claws, a one-man rampage through the whole operation as Jason followed meekly behind, trying to avoid the blood splatters.

“Please!” Slade had cornered what appeared to be the last living person in the warehouse, one of the henchmen that had been sneering at them in the cage. “Please, I’m sorry! We were just following orders!”

“You sure enjoyed following those orders,” Slade rasped, his voice hoarse but no less murderous.

“I swear, it’s our boss! I can find them! I can relay a message!”

Slade took a step back, and gestured at the wide expanse of dismembered bodies he’d left in his wake. “This?” he snarled, “This _is_ the message. You can tell your boss hello when you meet them in hell.”

The henchman caught sight of Jason, and started begging. “Please,” he squeaked, “Please, Mr. Hood, you have to save me – you can’t let him kill me –”

That sort of line would’ve worked on Nightwing. Probably on Red Robin. But trying it on _Red Hood_?

Jason bared his teeth in a vicious snarl.

The body hit the ground in two pieces.

Slade exhaled slowly and finally tugged on the main door. His movements jerked as he stepped outside – on any other man, Jason would’ve called it a stumble – and Jason emerged from the warehouse to see Slade’s face tilted up to the night sky as he breathed deeply.

Slade had been off their radar for a full week.

Jason was saved from any more disturbing realizations by the roar of the Batmobile – it wasn’t all the way parked when the door slid open and a black-and-blue form straightened out.

Jason didn’t even try to control his movements. He _ran_ , lunging as Nightwing crouched, and burying his face in the dark kevlar – it still smelled faintly of Alfred’s preferred soap.

“Little Wing,” Nightwing whispered, burying a hand in his fur as he shuddered, “I was so worried.”

Nightwing snapped his gaze up, remembering the other threat, and Jason snarled as he moved to straighten, forcing him to stay in the crouch.

“Slade,” Nightwing said, trying awkwardly to extricate himself from Jason, “…You look like crap.”

Jason stilled, and turned, pausing enough for Nightwing to push himself up all the way – Nightwing was wearing an arm brace, and Jason narrowed his eyes at the sight.

“Not my blood,” Slade shrugged – but while the blood splatters were definitely gruesome, Jason had a feeling that Nightwing was talking more about Slade’s sunken cheeks and general pallor.

“What happened?”

“Someone decided to renege on my contract,” Slade said, his expression twisting to a smile. Jason shivered and ducked behind Nightwing. “Without realizing what a terrible idea that was.”

“You killed them,” Nightwing said flatly.

“Yes, little bird,” Slade confirmed, “And I’m going to track down every last person associated with this drug, and burn this whole operation to the ground.”

“Slade –”

“Get in my way,” Slade said, soft and deadly for all that the man looked two steps away from a collapse, “And I’ll go through you.”

“ _Slade_ –”

“They changed up their dosage,” Slade called back as he walked away, “The kid’s going to be stuck for a good few hours longer than you were.”

Nightwing watched him leave, tense. “I should stop him,” he murmured.

Jason closed his teeth around Nightwing’s uninjured hand, and added a scowl for good measure.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Nightwing grumbled, nudging Jason into the Batmobile, “But this was probably our best chance to stop him. He’s nowhere near one hundred percent.”

Slade Wilson had just murdered twenty-three men in fifteen minutes.

* * *

Six hours and counting, and Jason _still_ couldn’t shift back. The mental wall itched inside his mind like a loose tooth, irritating and distracting. Thankfully, Dick had found other ways to soothe both his frustration and the jitters – there was some generic action movie playing on the screen, while Dick flopped on his back and Tim curled up against his side. Damian was perched on the armchair, and Alfred was sitting next to him.

Jason mentally worried away at the wall, the movie not engaging enough to take up all his attention – stupid drugs, stupid Slade, stupid idiots who decided that capturing Deathstroke in Gotham was a good idea – and mentally _slipped_ when the wall slid free.

With a surprised yelp, Jason was human again. Dick gave an annoyed groan when fur was replaced with armor, and Tim rolled his eyes and straightened.

Being human had never felt so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho, Slade is _pissed_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slade interrupts his regularly scheduled homicide to rescue some baby animals.

They were working on a deadline.

From the moment that Deathstroke got away, they were on a deadline. Find the gangs, the suppliers, the bases, and get everyone involved arrested before a murderous mercenary showed up to burn the whole operation to the ground.

Of course, Slade would have little difficulty in hunting down individuals and exacting vengeance slowly, but Dick was banking on him leaving enough of a message with the operation to ignore the individual players.

Tim didn’t know how effective that ploy would be – Jason’s frown made it clear that Slade was _pissed_ at being held captive – but it was the only one they had. Bruce was still off-planet, Dick was injured, and apparently Jason had exacerbated his not-quite-healed ribs.

Which left Tim and Damian working together. Damian was hunting for the servers and information – hopefully out of Deathstroke’s potential path – and Tim was using his hawk form to lurk in the ceiling rafters.

The analysis of the toxin showed that it only worked on human forms. As long as Tim was already shifted, he would be safe. It was a violation of Batman’s rule to never shift unless absolutely necessary, but Jason broke that rule half the time anyway, and what Batman didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

Tim stayed in his perch, peering down at the gang members talking over a distribution map – three were already marked with Xs, and Tim had a sinking feeling about those. Especially with the worried tone to their conversation, the growing discontent as they muttered over finding alternate routes and offloading supplies.

“We should just dump the product,” one of them said.

“Are you kidding? You know how much it costs?”

“I’m certainly not dying for it, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Fucking bigshots – even if they were cheap enough to rip off Deathstroke, they should’ve had the decency to take their lumps and die, instead of dragging the rest of us into it.”

“The Bat’s not in town either – no one’s going to stop him.”

“I’m not getting involved in this shit!”

“You walking away, Pearson?”

“Oh,” a voice echoed coldly through the room, “I’m afraid none of you will be walking anywhere.”

Tim was already winging his way down – the room erupted into a clamor, hands moving to guns and shouts rising – but it was too late. Slade picked them off easily, almost _lazily_ , swords flashing.

Tim drew his wings in, dropping like a stone, but that orange-and-black mask only glanced at him for a second before throwing a small disc at him – Tim attempted to dodge, stretching his wings into a glide, but the disc clipped the edge of his wing.

Electricity _seized_ through him, white-hot and burning, and the room dissolved into a blur. He felt himself crashing into the ground, felt something in his right wing shift into _not-right-agony_ and he was forced still as tremors ran through him.

Unending pain – and the bird was grounded, the bird wasn’t supposed to be grounded, ground was unsafe and vulnerable – and there was a massive white wolf in the corner of his vision and Tim forced through the pain to shift back.

His shoulder throbbed, dislocated yet not, the wounds transferring oddly and searing down his spine as he curled up on the ground, gasping for breath.

The wolf – Deathstroke – was getting closer, muzzle dripping red, and Tim distantly noticed that the room was silent. Dead silent. Nothing except his heaving breaths as one ice blue eye narrowed, turning the bloody jaws into a snarl as he leisurely stalked towards Tim.

Tim tried to grip his bo staff with his working arm, but the injury extended into his shoulder blades, his back was throbbing, and he couldn’t get off the ground. He could barely move. The staff extended, thwacking against his palm, but the wolf just looked amused as Tim held it out, half-curled on the floor.

Tim was getting _really_ tired of being helpless at the feet of a wolf, and he had a feeling that this particular situation wasn’t going to result in a new pack member.

* * *

Damian had gotten the information quite easily – the imbeciles didn’t have nearly the kind of security to stop Drake’s program from eating through them and sucking up all the files. The download was complete in ten minutes.

He pocketed the drive and slunk back into the hallway. He knew full well that they’d given him the information retrieval job to keep him out of the way. Like he was a _child_ , like he couldn’t take on one puffed-up mercenary with delusions of grandeur.

Hmph. Deathstroke the _Terminator_ , they called him. And yet every time Wilson encountered them, _he_ was the one who ended up failing his mission. Pathetic.

Damian stole silently through the corridors – if he could regroup with Drake, they could capture everyone in this building and call the police –

Screams up ahead. Damian ran.

The shouts and begging and dying gurgles all cut out before Damian could make it, and he eased through the open door, scanning and cataloguing the scene at a glance. Dead bodies, a large amount of blood splatters – it looked like Deathstroke was using his swords – a body with a throat torn out by decidedly non-human teeth –

And the wolf. Standing over a body. That was still moving.

Damian was lunging before he registered red-and-black, smoke pellets enough to irritate the wolf’s sensitive nose and force him back as something in his heart _jolted_. That was Drake.

That was Drake, on the ground, on his back, weakly struggling, one arm limp. Damian slid between Red Robin and the massive silver wolf, and bared his teeth as he unsheathed his katana.

The wolf bared its fangs right back. Gleaming and sharp and dripping red, they were admittedly scarier.

“Red,” Damian said, keeping his voice level, “Report.”

“Think I dislocated my wing,” Drake whispered, “You?”

“I’m uninjured,” Damian said, still watching the wolf. It was fast, but was it fast enough to avoid Damian’s sword through its remaining eye? “Got what we came for.”

“Great,” Drake exhaled, “Now we just need a way past the wolf.”

Damian had some more smoke pellets, he could use those as a distraction – but Drake was immobile. Perhaps if he shifted back into a hawk, Damian could carry –

Before he could make a decision, the wolf’s ears flicked, snarl turning towards the door. Something clattered through the open doorway, rolling towards them before starting to hiss.

Vivid blue smoke came whistling out.

Damian tried to hold his breath – the wolf was leaping at the doorway, there were shouts and curses from the corridor, Damian had to stop Deathstroke from killing everyone in the building –

But Drake was screaming, contorting on the ground as he forced back into hawk form, and Damian could taste an oddly fruity smell, and suddenly the whole room was twenty times bigger than it’d been before.

Drake was still sprawled on the ground, one wing hanging flat, and Damian slithered around him, checking for other injuries, feeling the vibrations reverberate through the floor as a massive artic wolf messily murdered everyone in the building.

Screams cut out into agonized gasps, before dying entirely.

Damian couldn’t stop him. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get to the door fast enough to save anyone. He stayed coiled up near Drake, making sure that the hawk’s feathers were still fluttering with every breath, and tried to figure out a next step.

Grayson and Todd wouldn’t be able to help. No one else was close enough to get here in time. They could wait for the drug to wear off – but that could take _hours_ , and they were out in the open. Exposed and vulnerable. If they had somewhere to _hide_ – but no, Drake was still flopping uselessly on the ground.

The hawk made a piercing whistle, and Damian snapped his head up.

He wasn’t sure how a two-hundred-pound arctic wolf could _sneak up_ on someone, but it hadn’t been there a minute ago, and now it was towering over Damian.

Damian coiled up, raising his head and hissing violently. He snapped his jaws a few times in Wilson’s direction, trying to ignore the heavy curl of panic inside of him.

He wasn’t venomous. He wasn’t big enough to coil around the wolf’s throat and constrict, and even if he was, he doubted that Deathstroke would let him get that close. Drake was injured and unable to move, and Damian knew that all Deathstroke needed to go through both of them was one heavy paw.

To his surprise, Deathstroke shifted back to human form, icy blue eye now concealed by the orange-and-black mask. Damian hissed again – against a human, he might have a better chance. Grandfather disdained shifter forms as barbaric, and Damian hadn’t learned how to fight against others, or how to fight in his shifted form. And given Father’s rule on no shifts in uniform, he hadn’t learned it in Gotham either.

But even as carefully as Damian was watching, Wilson was faster – he had a gloved hand wrapped tightly around his head, forcing his jaws closed, before Damian could even blink.

Damian tried to hiss, and failed. He tried to writhe out of Wilson’s grasp, and failed. He tried to coil around his hand, constricting it – maybe with a few broken bones, Wilson would let go, but the mercenary just _laughed_.

“If I wanted you dead, kid, you’d be dead,” Wilson rumbled from behind his mask. Drake let out a piercing cry as Wilson picked him up, careful to support the dislocated wing.

“That’s on you, kid,” he said, responding to something Damian couldn’t parse out in the sharp whistle, “I thought you were one of them. Everyone knows that Bats don’t shift.”

He regarded both of them, and Damian could practically see the smug smile behind the mask. “Well. Not quite _Bats_ , are you.”

Drake made another sharp sound, nipping at Wilson’s fingers – not that the man could feel it through his gloves. Sure enough, Wilson just chuckled.

“Calm down, kid,” he said, heading for the door, “I’m not here on a contract, and I’m not going to eat you. You can keep your beak shut, _or_ I can leave you here, but I’d bet ten pounds of C4 that you don’t want that.”

Damian stilled. Drake squawked and fell silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Deathstroke said, satisfied.

Surprisingly, Wilson dropped them on top of a silent air conditioning vent when they were a good block away from the warehouse. Damian uncurled, hissing and snapping, but Wilson ignored him as he set Drake up straight and stretched out the dislocated wing.

Drake made a panicked cry.

Damian lunged at Wilson, wrapping around his wrist, scales shifting tighter and tighter – something _crack_ ed, and broke, but Wilson didn’t stop, and the hawk let out a piercing shriek as he popped the wing back into place.

Wilson none-too-gently tore Damian off of his wrist, holding his arm in place as the bone healed. “A thank you would’ve been nice,” he growled, “Unless you were planning on flying back home with only one working wing.”

Drake tentatively stretched his wings out as Damian coiled into an angry knot in front of him, gaze fixed on the mercenary. Drake made a series of definitely-not-happy sounds, but Wilson just shrugged.

In the distance, there was a second of compressed tension and a loud _boom_. Flames burst into existence, turning the night sky orange.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Wilson said, turning away, “Tell Nightwing that he can’t hide all of them. Not from me.”

* * *

Tim kept his beak shut as his wings flared in throbbing agony. His glide was dropping too low again, and he forced himself through a few painful flaps to catch the edge of another breeze.

They were in Bristol – Damian was coiled tightly around his feet, above the talons, and though the extra weight was minimal in the grand scheme of things, even a little bit was straying dangerously close to too much with the exhaustion and pain.

But they couldn’t stay in Gotham. Not injured, not stuck as a hawk and a snake – both predators, but not the top of the food chain. Not with Deathstroke running around. Not when Dick and Jason had no idea that they were in trouble.

Tim forced himself through another series of flaps, and he couldn’t suppress the pained cry. They were almost home. _Almost_. He could see the Manor on the hill. Just. A little. Closer.

They flew past the gates easily, and Tim headed for the front door – he did not have the dexterity needed to fly down through the tunnels into the Cave, and surely someone would find them soon.

He debated using the doorknob as a perch to peck at the doorbell, but he didn’t know if he could make that landing, not with Damian wrapped around his legs, and instead they managed an ungainly, skittering crash landing onto the front stoop.

He tucked his wings in as Damian slithered off of him – the baby snake hissed, but Tim was too tired to do anything but tuck his head under his wing, exhausted. Damian could be as annoyed as he wanted, Tim was just going to take a little nap here until someone found them.

* * *

“The information,” Damian said stiffly, handing over the drive to Grayson as he shoved the rest of his suit into the decontamination chamber.

“Thanks, Dames,” Grayson said softly, dark circles of exhaustion lining his face. Now that they finally had the information they needed, hopefully the older boy would get some sleep.

Behind them, Todd was coaxing Drake to uncurl, checking to make sure that there were no other injuries, and the dislocation was healing right. Drake was being uncooperative – he was limp on the bed, letting Todd test his range of movement but making no effort to help.

Of course, he had just flown half across the city on a freshly relocated wing, carrying Damian all the while. And what had Damian done, except hiss uselessly and break a wrist that had healed twenty seconds later?

“Tim will be fine,” Grayson said, watching his gaze.

“Tt. Of course he will. It was a minor injury,” Damian snapped, stalking away.

“You should get some sleep,” Grayson called after him. Damian didn’t bother with a reply, brushing past a fussing Todd as he headed for the stairs.

Half an hour later, he slithered back down – Grayson was asleep in the Batcomputer chair, Todd was nowhere to be seen, and Drake was curled up on the cot, eyes closed and breathing slow and deep.

Damian paused for a moment to check the bonds – Grayson’s bright sunshine, Todd’s slightly acidic vibrance, Pennyworth’s steadiness, Father’s centered, grounded mountain, and Drake’s flitting collection of sparks – before he slithered close to the cot.

He wound up the frame and slipped across the sheets, scales sliding easily. Drake was sleeping on his side, good arm curled under his head, knees drawn up, and Damian made for the small gap of empty space where Drake’s neck and chest were exposed.

He coiled up on the sheets and let his head rest on his scales. Finally, his heart rate quieted enough for sleep to draw close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just imagine tiny baby noodle Damian, hissing furiously at this giant, confused silver wolf.
> 
> Damian, constricting around Slade's wrist: I WILL KILL YOU.  
> Slade, looking at the new bracelet he's sporting: is it - is it trying to attack me?
> 
> I wonder who's up next.....


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been waiting for this particular reveal, and a significant portion of you guessed right. Plus my first exploration of Slade's POV.

The feds had dropped in on the case of the drug – street name, TruBlue – after the meddling Bats had gotten into his way, and Slade had reluctantly quit Gotham. Between the vigilantes and the cops, there were too many people in his way, unless he wanted to massacre half the city.

A seething portion of his mind perked up at the thought.

But destruction on that scale would invite a more militant response, maybe even get the Justice League involved, and there was a reason Slade was so good at his job and that was because he knew what messes he shouldn’t get involved in.

He was still pissed. They’d kept him captive – chained and muzzled, like he was a goddamn _dog_ – for a week. A _week_. Slade hadn’t taken that long to escape captivity since the last time Waller had gone after him.

And he hadn’t even escaped himself.

Fucking _Bats_.

Compounding the problem was that Daddy Bat had come swooping back in – Slade had been merrily cutting through everyone who’d had the bad sense to so much as breathe the same air as the idiots that thought they’d use him as a test subject, completely unobstructed with Grayson injured, Hood wary of getting too close, Red Robin injured, and the katana-wielding brat not being let out without a babysitter. And then Batman had come back to town.

Slade had seen which way the wind was going, and got out of the city before the vengeance fell on him.

Precisely why he didn’t like working in Gotham. It was too chaotic. Too many moving variables. Corrupt cops, slightly less corrupt cops, Bat vigilantes, other vigilantes, whatever the fuck the Red Hood was supposed to be, mafia families, gangs, Rogues – the city was a nightmare and a headache wrapped into one.

And TruBlue and its operations weren’t solely restricted to Gotham. They’d fled the city when he’d started hunting them down – a fair number went to Bludhaven, which was also off-limits right now, but the others had scattered inland. And cities like Vineland had no vigilantes to get into Slade’s way.

As long as he was discreet, he could murder everyone in the base and get out, no one the wiser. Unfortunately, that meant no explosions. For now.

Slade crept through the halls, gun out – he dropped three guards with silenced bullets before he found a computer set-up. Perfect. His intel was running dry, and this was an opportunity to get a step ahead of the Bats and their information network.

The room was silent and unguarded, and Slade let the door click shut behind him as he made for the desk. He reached for the mouse – only to be halted by a muffled squeak.

It was low. Low enough that someone without supersensitive hearing wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Low enough that Slade almost thought he’d imagined it.

He scanned the contents of the desk – desktop, keyboard, files, mouse, cup full of pens…and a small, shivering bundle of darkness.

Slade stared at it.

It stared back, beady eyes locked on Slade’s ski mask – he’d foregone his usual suit for stealth – the tips of pointed ears twitching.

Pointed ears. Delicate, clawed wings. As dark as night.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The bat made a small chattering sound, equally surprised. Slade eyed it warily, but unless it gave him rabies, there wasn’t a whole lot a two-inch mammal could do. “You’re a long way from Gotham,” Slade grumbled, keeping an eye on the small heap of pitch-black while he accessed the computer.

The bat chirped angrily. Slade ignored it, keeping a careful ear to make sure it didn’t shift back to human – it was clear that the Bat had gotten drugged, they usually stuck to their no-shifting-in-costume rule – and continued hacking into the files.

A shoddy firewall later, Slade was downloading everything onto a drive. First came murder. There were supposed to be twenty-three people in the building. Twenty-three bodies to drop – a combination of guards, scientists, and the people in charge.

Three were already down, so twenty more to go.

Slade turned to leave, and a twitching wing caught the corner of his eye. Slade paused.

The bat had managed to drag itself forward an inch, but its wings were fluttering uselessly. Unless they’d started lacing the drug with something new, it shouldn’t be doing that. Or maybe the Bat refused to spend any time in his shifter form and didn’t know how to fly?

Slade knew that some old families – like the al Ghuls – disdained shifter forms and pack instincts as beneath them, the more fool they. The shifter form was another tool in the arsenal, and Slade had honed the wolf the same way he had the human.

The Bat might’ve been one of those backwards idiots – it would certainly explain the skittishness of half his pack – but anyone who’d spent any amount of time with Grayson knew how often the kid shifted back and forth. If it wasn’t a pack thing, then…

Then the bat couldn’t fly for other reasons. Slade drew closer, ignoring the high-pitched squeaks to pick the bat up and give it a closer look. He didn’t have an in-depth knowledge of bat anatomy, but he could tell that the wings were twisted weirdly, especially when the bat tried to extend them and hiss, like he wasn’t the size of Slade’s palm.

“What happened to you?” Slade asked. The bat hissed again, and latched onto his thumb with tiny fangs. Unfortunately for it, it couldn’t even manage to penetrate Slade’s glove.

Slade sighed, and watched the bat try to worry away at his glove with its teeth and claws. It wasn’t having much luck, and Slade scowled.

The whole point of coming to this random city was to _avoid_ the Bats. And now he’d run into the most irritating one of them all.

Slade cast a glance around the room, and peeked outside the window, but there was no sign of any of the others.

He turned back to the bat, who had given up on the thumb and was now sulking, wings folded oddly by its side. “Did you really come here without backup?” Slade asked, incredulous. What was the point of having an entire goddamn pack if you didn’t use them?

The bat made an annoyed click.

Slade narrowed his eye. “Right, and I can see how well that’s going for you,” he said dryly, before heading for the door.

The bat gave a high-pitched chirp, scrabbling in Slade’s grasp. “I can leave you here, if you’d prefer,” Slade murmured as he opened the door, “Remind me – how long does it take for the drug to wear off?”

Half-irritated, half-wary clicks resounded, just out of average human audible frequency, and Slade ignored them. He contemplated stuffing the bat in a pocket, but there was no easy way to do that without jarring those maybe-broken wings, and he didn’t need two hands to shoot anyway.

Two more guards, and Slade downed them both easily – and was immediately met with high-pitched chattering, loud enough to be extremely annoying. He raised the bat to eye level, and it promptly tried to lunge at his face, a maneuver easily halted by grabbing its feet.

“I don’t think so,” Slade said quietly, “You can’t stop me.” More angry sounds. “I have a lot of vengeance to work through, and every single person in this building is guilty.” The bat hissed, and Slade resisted the urge to curl his hand into a fist.

“Your moral righteousness will be the death of you one day,” Slade informed him. He was tempted to leave the bat where they were and kill everyone in the building without that high-pitched yammering in his ears, but murdering eighteen people right in front of Batman would be testing his luck.

It was fine. Slade was the best hunter on the planet, and it didn’t _matter_ if every single goddamn infuriating goody-two-shoes got in his way. He’d made his point with the massacres in Gotham, and he could pick off everyone else at his leisure. What the Bats didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

He would, however, be getting rid of that drug supply before he left.

“Calm down,” Slade snapped as the bat began chattering again, sticking to the shadows as he made his way to the lab, “I’ll stick to non-lethal to protect your delicate sensibilities.” Beady blue eyes watched him warily.

To his disappointment and grudging relief, the lab was empty. No one to stop him from poking through the notes, memorizing anything that seemed useful, and hunting down every vial of TruBlue to pile them all in the center.

The bat made a cautious click. Slade smiled.

He had been _planning_ on discreet. In and out, twenty-three bodies on the ground, no one the wiser. But the Bat already knew he was here, so there was really no point in hiding.

Slade left the bomb in the midst of the vials, and strolled out.

* * *

It wasn’t a large explosion – Slade barely felt the tremor, a block away, but the sirens started soon enough as the chemical fire spread through the building. All in a good night’s work.

He was still pissed about losing the chance to cross eighteen more names off the list, and he glared at his unexpected companion.

His unexpectedly _silent_ companion.

The bat hadn’t made a single sound after Slade left the lab.

He carefully placed it on a nearby step, and crouched to get a better look. Leaving it here would be pointless if it managed to expire of a punctured lung or something the moment Slade turned his back.

Slade was _not_ going to babysit the bat until the drugs wore off. For one, he had a reputation to maintain, and two, he didn’t want to stick around for Batman, even an injured Batman.

“Do I need to take you to a hospital?” Slade asked, nudging at the folded wings until he managed to stretch them away from the body. There was a quiet clicking sound, but nothing else. It certainly _looked_ like it was still in one piece, but it was trembling violently, eyes squeezed shut and not even trying to move.

Easy prey for anything that would come after it, human or animal.

Great. “I don’t suppose you have a comm somewhere?” Slade asked without much hope. He knew that Bat gear was designed to hide in their shifter form, and it would take him a solid hour to track down Grayson’s number. He didn’t know how to contact anyone else in the caped community, but neither was he staying here, one block away from an illegal drug lab he’d set on fire, in a city that did _not_ have a standing ‘do not engage’ order with anyone that looked like they might be a cape.

Slade sighed, and scooped the bat up again. It didn’t make a sound, but it shuddered harder, trying and failing to fold its wings again.

He was hard-pressed to think of a single place in this city where an injured two-inch bat would be safe from external threats. Gotham was better – there was at least a chance that someone would stumble upon him and recognize their pack alpha – but also twenty times more dangerous. He didn’t know any of the Bat’s safehouses, and he certainly wasn’t leading him to _his_ , which didn’t leave many –

Wait a minute.

He didn’t know any of the Bat’s _safe_ houses.

But he did know where he could drop him off.

* * *

The bat made one weary hiss when Slade deposited him in the passenger seat of the car, before he curled up in the little nest of towels and ignored him. So many things about the Bat pack were beginning to make sense now.

“Dramatic,” Slade rolled his eyes as he started the car. Continued, pointed silence.

It was a two-hour drive back to Gotham. Surprisingly, the bat didn’t even try to observe where they were going. Either because he already knew – Slade knew that Batman was only human, but a decade of half of rumor-mongering was hard to shake off – or because he was saving up his strength.

Slade could’ve gotten there faster, but the bat actually looked like he’d fallen asleep, and Slade stuck to the speed limit. Thankfully, he didn’t actually need to go _inside_ the city – Slade wasn’t joking when he talked to Grayson, the entire place made his skin itch, it was a cesspit of a city and they’d be better off razing it to the ground and salting the earth – and the bat stirred with a sleepy chirp as they slowed down.

Slade came to a stop in front of the massive gates. He could ring the intercom, but he deserved something for coming all this way, and testing the Bat’s security measures would be a suitable reward.

Slade did like a challenge.

The bat’s chattering picked up when he recognized where they were, and Slade didn’t bother to explain as he scaled the wall one-handed, dropping on the other side silently. He’d bet motion sensors linked to alarms, and cameras swiveling on his position. But they couldn’t use antipersonnel devices, not without raising too many questions, and Slade made his way up the drive and towards the front door.

It opened to an older man holding a shotgun. Slade stopped – a shotgun blast to the chest wouldn’t kill him, but it sure would hurt, and Slade was not in the mood.

It had been an exhausting, draining, thoroughly unsatisfying month. He should’ve cut Wintergreen off the moment he mentioned Gotham. Bats and drugs and cages – and he hadn’t even earned any money off of the whole affair.

“Mister Wilson,” the man said – British accent, dressed in a butler’s uniform, handling the shotgun like he knew full well how to use it. “What a surprise.”

“I have something of yours,” Slade said, raising the towel-swaddled bat. The bat made a mournful clicking noise.

The butler lowered the shotgun. “Master Bruce,” he said, taking the towel-plus-bat from Slade with apparent unconcern, “I didn’t expect that _this_ is what you meant by urgent business elsewhere, though somehow I am not surprised.” The butler’s gaze pinned Slade, and he resisted the urge to take a step back. “You might as well come inside, Mister Wilson.”

Slade did not want to go inside. He’d dropped the bat off, and now he wanted a head start before he shifted back to human.

“Inside,” the butler repeated, clipped, in a tone Slade recognized from the military, “I suspect the others will have questions.”

“Funny,” Slade said, stepping across the threshold, “That was exactly the part I was trying to avoid.”

“If you truly hoped to do that, you wouldn’t have brought him here,” the butler pointed out, “You seem like a smart man, Mister Wilson, so spare us both the denials.”

The butler led them to the kitchen, depositing the towel and bat on the counter, before arching a brow at Slade. Slade decided to pick his battles wisely, and sat down at the table.

“I figured ‘missing bat’ and ‘Deathstroke’ in the same area would raise some red flags,” Slade said, watching the bat struggle free of the towel as the butler examined him. He was chittering again, like the butler could understand, and it turned higher-pitched when the butler moved to his wings. “I just wanted to make it clear that I had nothing to do with it, _before_ the Justice League broke down my door.”

“You’ve made your feelings on this particular drug quite clear, Mister Wilson,” the butler hummed. He wasn’t even looking at him, and Slade felt a little perturbed. This goddamn family. “And a wise choice. For it wouldn’t just be the Justice League knocking on your door.” He finally looked up to fix Slade with a penetrating stare, “And not everyone in this pack shares Master Bruce’s distaste of murder.”

Jesus Christ, of course Wayne couldn’t just have a normal butler.

Any further threats were postponed by running footsteps – two pairs, one lighter than the other. “Alfred,” a low voice called from the hallway, getting closer, “The perimeter alert identified – Deathstroke.”

The Red Hood, sans mask or helmet or armor, frozen in the doorway. Around his shoulder, a dark-haired head peeking out, blue eyes scrunched up in confusion.

Slade grinned.

“Alfred,” Hood said slowly, “What –”

“Mister Wilson was kind enough to deliver Master Bruce,” the butler said, motioning to the tiny bat, “Who seems to have found himself in a predicament.”

“Bruce!” Grayson said, ignoring Slade to hurry to the counter and fuss over the bat. Hood stayed where he was, half in the doorway, green eyes fixed on Slade with his hands balled into fists.

  
Slade could hear his heartbeat, too fast for a simple jolt of adrenaline. Interesting.

Whatever it was, Grayson clearly recognized it as well, because he stepped away from Bruce with a wary look at his brother. He opened his mouth, and then whipped his gaze back to Slade, clearly catching whoever was attempting to sneak up on him with near-silent footsteps – good, but not good enough.

Grayson cursed, and vaulted over the table to block the attack. Slade just twisted in his seat, watching with amusement as Grayson caught the youngest brat, yanking his arms back and forcing him to drop the sword. “Damian, _no_ ,” Grayson hissed.

“He’s a villain!” the brat protested, struggling in Grayson’s hold.

“I prefer the term mercenary,” Slade said dryly.

“Master Damian, we do not attack guests in this house,” the butler said sternly.

“ _Guest_?” Hood almost choked.

“He returned Master Bruce – who I believe has dislocated injuries from his human form,” Alfred said, depositing the bat in Hood’s hands, “And is ready to shift back.” He exchanged a significant glance with Hood, and Slade figured that having Batman appear in Wayne’s kitchen would be less than discreet.

Hood left with one last glance at Slade, and the brat hissed at Grayson to let him go. “He’s served his purpose then,” the brat sneered, “Why is he still here?”

“It is customary to offer guests refreshment,” Alfred said – and he’d apparently put on the kettle in the short span of time when Slade’s attention was off of him. “And I suspect Master Bruce has some more questions.”

Slade could, theoretically, get out of here. Grayson and the brat were both in sleepwear, the butler was no longer holding the shotgun, and Slade was still armed. He could make it back to the car and out of Gotham long before Wayne came back.

Unfortunately, the Bats refused to let things go until they got their answers, and Slade was _tired_ of running. He hadn’t yet found the poison that could kill him, so maybe he could just enjoy the tea and a breather in a house inhabited by a whole pack of vigilantes.

The butler slid a plate with cake in front of him, and Slade’s mind was made up for him.

“Damian,” Grayson hissed, quiet but not quiet enough to bypass Slade’s senses, dragging his brother until they were both in Slade’s line of sight. Slade took a bite of cake, and paused. “No attacking Slade.”

“He’s a threat,” the brat snapped. Slade took another bit of cake.

“Damian, just – Bruce wants to talk to him, okay,” Grayson whispered.

“If he attacks us, I will defend myself,” the brat said, narrowing his eyes. Slade met his glare with a bland smile as he took another bite, before he turned to the butler.

“How much does Wayne pay you?” Slade asked idly.

The brat’s face twisted into a furious scowl. Grayson looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Mister Wilson,” the butler said levelly, placing a cup of tea in front of him, “Do you truly believe I am here for the _money_?”

“Touché,” Slade conceded. That was a shame. This was really good cake.

“If you so much as _contemplate_ abducting Pennyworth, I will sever your hands from your body,” the brat snarled, and Grayson groaned.

“Vicious little viper, aren’t you,” Slade said, and the brat actually hissed. He rolled his eye, “You’ll never get this kind of quality out of a captive. The effects of free will can’t be replicated.”

“An interesting argument,” Pennyworth said, “And one that thoroughly sidesteps the morality of keeping someone prisoner.”

Ah. The Bats’ favorite argument. “Morality is a social construct,” Slade said, disinterested, “Practicality, on the other hand, is actually worth something.”

“An interesting argument,” a slightly raspy voice echoed from the doorway, and Slade turned to see Wayne in the doorway, Hood slightly behind him. “And from a practicality standpoint, why did you rescue me and bring me back home?”

Wayne looked like shit. His hair was matted with sweat, his face was grey, one hand was in a sling while the other was in a brace. Hood looked like he was hovering to catch him if he began to collapse. Pennyworth pointedly drew out a chair at the table, but Wayne remained standing.

Considering he’d spent the last several hours as a bat the size of a toy car, Slade stayed in his chair and let Wayne loom.

“I’m not suicidal enough to want you dead,” Slade said simply. The Bat’s one rule was exactly that – _his_. And if he died, Slade didn’t think the rest of his pack would keep to it.

“And my children?” Wayne arched an eyebrow, “You’ve gotten them out of trouble in the last few weeks too.”

“Killing a Bat in Gotham is more trouble than it’s worth,” Slade shrugged, leaning back, “Any of you capes, actually. Maim one, and the whole lot of them fall on your head. I’m not a villain, I don’t want to take over the world or test my skills or whatever the latest bullshit is. I’d like to do my work in peace, and that becomes a lot easier when there aren’t heroes gunning for my head.”

“Your work,” Wayne said, his face blank, “Killing people.”

“I’m a mercenary, not an assassin,” Slade said, a little offended, “Killing people isn’t the only thing I know how to do.”

Wayne gave a half-shrug, both conceding and dismissing his point. “You killed two people tonight,” he said sharply.

Slade had killed more than two people, not that he was going to mention that. “They deserved it.”

“Your grudge against the suppliers of TruBlue –”

“ _Grudge_ ,” Slade repeated, incredulous. He had to stuff another bite of cake in his mouth before he said something he regretted. “They kept me in a _cage_.”

“And the police are on the case,” Wayne said, “They’ll be brought to justice.”

“Justice,” Slade said skeptically, “Justice – as in a cell ten times bigger than the one they put me in, three square meals a day, no muzzle? Doesn’t sound much like justice to me. Also doesn’t sound like much incentive to stop.”

“And your solution is murder?” Wayne asked, his face impassive, but Slade could see the ticks of anger in his jaw.

Slade shrugged, “I’m sure if you kept _them_ in a cage for a week, some might have a change of heart, but I prefer to eliminate the problem entirely.” He finished the last of the cake and his tea, and stood up.

Instantly, the tension skyrocketed. Grayson stepped in front of the brat, Hood pressed closer to Wayne’s back, and Pennyworth straightened.

“Now, unless you’re planning to take me captive, I’ll be taking my leave,” Slade said, stepping away from the table and keeping his guard up. He didn’t fail to notice that there were a couple of pack members missing from the kitchen. “The tea was delicious, as was the cake.”

“It’s always nice to be appreciated,” Pennyworth said dryly, stepping forward, “I’ll show you to the door.”

“You have a lovely home,” Slade threw back at Wayne, a parting shot. He could see Wayne’s face turn into a thundercloud, and the low whispers of a hushed conversation behind him.

Pennyworth saw him to the door and waited as Slade descended the steps. Grayson joined him, staring at Slade with an inscrutable expression – he had been strangely quiet in the kitchen, and Slade arched an eyebrow.

“Why do you do it?” Grayson asked quietly, “The mercenary work? You don’t need the money.”

“The thrill,” Slade drawled.

Grayson’s expression smoothed to blankness, not even a smile on his face. Slade had made it ten more steps down the drive before Grayson called after him.

“You don’t need to be a mercenary to get that thrill.”

When he turned back to the house, the doors were closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not particularly fond of the ending, but I have an idea for a future fic involving Slade and I needed to leave things a little open.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [m. l. relictus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815395) by [Sword_Kallya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sword_Kallya/pseuds/Sword_Kallya)




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